Copper Heart
by stripeyjumpers
Summary: "A heart out of copper and a head made of brass, a mind like a clock behind eyes made of glass" John is determined to prove that Sherlock is very much human. Based off of a short poem I conjured up at 2am. Fireside cuddles ensue. *Reviews are welcome*
1. The Machine

A/N: The poem can be read at the very last chapter (labeled 'Copper Heart') if you wish. The poem itself isn't integrated into the story. Thanks so much for reading and reviews are always awesome :3

"She didn't mean it, you know." John said solemnly as he glanced out the window of the tired taxi cab.

Sherlock only stared down at his phone with no emotion swimming in his sea green gaze. John looked over his shoulder at the silent man.

"Sherlock, I'm serious, you know how Donovan is, you shouldn't let it get to you."

"I'm not letting anything get to me." He said with eyes still fixed on the small screen.

"But I know you, and I know it's bothering you."

"She called me a machine, John, and believe me I've heard far worse."

John just shook his head silently. "I don't think you have."

Finally Sherlock lifted his stare and glanced slightly up at John.

"What makes you say that?"

John thought quietly for a moment with the soft hum of the taxi and the gentle vibration beneath his feet relaxing his mind.

"This last case was tough for all of us. No one wants to deal with a child getting kidnapped, not even you, and that's why you shut down."

"I'm sorry?"

"You do feel emotion I know you do, but it scares you so you block it out and turn into this soulless robot intent on doing nothing but solving the case."

Sherlock lifted his head once more and looked John right in his navy blue eyes with a completely lifeless expression. "You are wrong John, as usual."

John only smiled at this. "And now you're trying to use insults to deflect the situation, real clever but a bit overdone don't you think?"

Huffing in frustration, Sherlock put his phone down and glared at the doctor sitting next to him. "And how, exactly do you know that I'm capable of human emotions?"

"You really want to know?"

"Enlighten me."

"Alright, time for my own deductions."

Sherlock scoffed condescendingly and went back to his mobile.

"You won't stop staring at that phone," John started, "but I can tell by the way you're moving your fingers that you're not texting, you flail your thumbs around wildly when you text and you've got a much more focused expression. So you're not texting, then what are you doing? You're not looking things up on the internet either, if you were your eyes would be darting back and forth as you read."

Sherlock interrupted John's rambling with a heavy sigh and closed his eyes. John continued,

"You're only staring at the screen and moving your fingers every now and then, which I've seen you do before when deleting old text messages. So that's what you're doing then, but why? You could delete those messages any time, and normally after a case we talk the whole cab ride home, but not this time because you're doing a mundane activity to get your mind off something. And there's nothing else that could be more fresh in your mind than what Donovan just said, ergo, you are upset, a perfectly human reaction."

John grinned contently to himself, patting his hands on his knees and waiting for Sherlock's retort. He was quiet for a long while before finally slicing the silence.

"Those were very good deductions John," He almost mumbled, "and they would be even better if any of them were correct."

"No way," John said, shaking his head, "I know I was right and that's something I hardly ever say. You just don't wanna admit you're human."

"Donovan was quite correct John; I do function very much like a machine."

"But is that really what you want?"

Sherlock's only response was silence as he faced the window. John spoke again as the cab finally pulled up close to Baker Street.

"D'you know what? You're not a machine, and I'm gonna prove it. I'm gonna prove you're human."

"You can't do that."

John smiled. "Watch me."


	2. The Laugh

"Never," Sherlock snapped from his sprawled out position on the couch. John looked up from his laptop.

"Never? Never in all your life?"

"No, not that I can remember at least."

"You're telling me you've never told a joke before? What about—"

"Sarcasm doesn't count John."

"Hm, alright, what about pranks? You had to have gotten into some mischief with Mycroft as a child, right?"

"You would think, but no. He was ever the one making a fool out of me. My revenge was always something intellectual, elaborate, and usually very hurtful, it was wonderful."

"But you do like to laugh though right? I mean I know the joke I just told wasn't very good but most people at least laugh at the sheer stupidity of it."

"I'm not most people, John."

"Oh, that's right, you're not fully human, how could I forget."

"You forget because you are easily distracted."

"Laughter isn't a distraction."

"Yes it is, it clogs your brain and stops you from thinking clearly."

"But it also makes you happy."

"Happiness is a small price to pay for a clear head."

John sighed and closed his laptop down. "Hmph, alright then. I'm off to do some ruddy laundry, anything you need thrown in the wash?"

"Hm? No, my things are at the dry cleaners."

"Right then," He nodded as he headed out of the room.

It was only moments later that John came flooding back into the sitting room, finding Sherlock in the same position, his entire length spread across the sofa with his fingers curled up under his chin. John was holding something that very much looked like a small cloth in his left hand.

"Sherlock?" he asked in an undeniably irritated tone.

Sherlock opened one eye and glanced up at the doctor standing in the entryway to the kitchen.

"What is this?" John asked, shaking the raggedy fabric in front of his face.

"What is what, John?"

John slightly braced himself before spreading open the fabric, revealing it to be one of his jumpers, now shrunken down to a size that would fit an adolescent boy.

"You shrunk my jumper, didn't you?"

The way the tiny jumper looked so disproportioned to the older doctor made an almost undetectable smile creep up on the detective's face.

"I don't know what you're talking about John." He said flatly.

"No you know exactly what I'm talking about, how many times do I tell you not to put these in the drier? For goodness sake I thought things like this only happen on television shows!"

Looking up at a very flustered John, Sherlock suddenly couldn't hold back a small laugh.

"Are you laughing at me?" John tried to keep his irritation but couldn't hold back a smile either.

"No," Sherlock shot out promptly.

"I don't think so; I heard it, that low breathy chuckle. You laughed at me admit it!"

"That's preposterous John, you're hearing things."

John chuckled to himself in quiet disbelief, staring down at his practically doll sized sweater. "Can you imagine Anderson wearing this?" he asked.

And this time there was no denying the deep laughter that came up from the detective. John smiled wide and joined in a hysterical giggle.

"Alright that time you laughed! I'm not that dense Sherlock," he said as he absent-mindedly tossed his shrunken jumper on top of the detective's chest.

"John, I only took the time to laugh at that because of your mention of Anderson; he is a laughing stock in and of himself."

"Right, machine my a—"

"John!"

"Just saying," And John turned back around to finish the laundry.


	3. The Night

There were virtually no words to describe it, the feeling of night. Sherlock lay in the middle of his bed, drowning in a tidal wave of sheets. He stared up at the ceiling that was now nothing more than a thick wall of black ink. He sighed heavily into the nothingness. His forehead was brimmed with sweat, having just awoken from a violent nightmare. He had dreamt of one of he and John's previous cases, in which they both were being chased through the street by an armed criminal. Shots rang out around them, snapping at their ear drums, bursting through the midmorning fog like misfit fireworks. Sherlock could only hear John's sickening scream behind him, and the gunfire stopped.

He blinked hard and wrenched the thought away, desperately trying to dig himself deeper into his pillow. He looked at the darkness swelling around him, and let it take him.

The next time Sherlock awoke it was to John's hand cupping his face, staring at him with eyes filled to the brim with concern. The small lamp cast dancing shadows across John's face as he stared down at the detective, who was now breathing heavily and lightly shaking.

"Are you awake? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock just gave the slowest nod and tried to catch his breath.

"I heard you screaming all the way from my room, were you having a nightmare or something?"

"Mhm," he nodded.

"Jesus Sherlock, you scared me. I'd though some murderer snuck in through the window or some sorts."

Sherlock lifted his hand and placed it on John's that was still holding his cheek, almost examining it.

"You have a far too active imagination, John." His voice was low and shaken.

"Maybe I just care too much." He joked.

"Caring—"

"Isn't an advantage? A distraction? Too human?" Without thinking John started to move his thumb lightly over Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock sighed into this and closed his eyes again.

"The night is so strange John." He whispered.

John stopped his thumb and relocated his hand to the top of Sherlock's shoulder.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock opened his eyes again and stared up at the ceiling.

"It has a life of its own. Light pours into places, but darkness takes places over. Like a creature, like clouds of black smoke."

"Does it scare you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Though, I do find…"

"What?"

"Bad dreams seem to dwell in the night. They're cowards, really, hiding behind a veil of darkness, just to claw at your subconscious, making everything seem ten times more terrifying."

"So you were afraid then?"

Sherlock waved a hand in the air to dismiss this.

"No, just making a general observation. For instance you scream much louder when you have nightmares during the night than if you were to take a nap in the afternoon."

John sat back a little on the bed, his hand now just gently resting on Sherlock's forearm.

"You…you hear me scream?"

"Of course I do, these walls aren't as thick as you might think."

"Oh…" was his only response as his eyes wandered to the floor. "But I don't understand," he stated, very quietly, without looking at Sherlock, "if you can hear me…how come…how come you've never come up or, asked me if I was okay? Maybe even tried to comfort—wait, no, you wouldn't, would you? That requires emotions I suppose. In fact you probably don't even know how to comfort someone at all."

Finally John glanced over at Sherlock who had already drifted off into sleep again. John stopped his hand when he realized he'd been absent-mindedly rubbing Sherlock's arm in a soothing motion. He stared down at the sleeping figure.

"But you were breathing heavy, and sweating," he was talking to himself now, "a very human way to respond to a nightmare don't you think?"

John shifted his position and scooted closer to Sherlock's form, placing his palm over his dark raven curls.

"And you didn't tell me to leave of sod off when I touched your face…you didn't tell me to leave at all…" he petted the soft brown locks gently.

"You are more human than you think, Sherlock."


	4. The Hand

"You said you were going to prove it," The words bound out of Sherlock's mouth with such force it almost startled John, who'd been resting his head up against the cab window.

"I'm sorry?"

"The last time we came back from a case, you said you were going to prove I was human. It has been nearly two weeks. I'm still not seeing any definitive proof."

"Shouldn't that be a good thing?"

"It is, because it proves me right, but I suppose I expected a stronger effort on your part."

"Maybe I don't need to put in an effort."

"What are you saying?"

"Maybe you're proving yourself wrong all on your own."

"I don't see what you mean."

"Sherlock, I know you know you can feel things, I know it scares you, and I know you won't just say it. Why can't you just say it?"

"Because it isn't true!" Sherlock's sudden outburst caused the cab driver to give him a strange look in the rear view mirror.

"It is so true!" John shot back in a huffed whisper.

"You have a hypothesis but you have no supporting evidence."

"And neither do you."

"What?"

"I get it now, I do. I know why you like thinking of yourself as a machine, because it gives you the perfect excuse to hide the fact that there's something on this earth that the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't understand."

"You're being ridiculous John."

"No, you are. You don't understand emotions, that's why you run from them. But you definitely feel them and you're clueless as to what to do with them which scares you because you pride yourself so much on things that you know."

"Stop talking John." Sherlock turned to face the window, and John noticed what might have been the smallest crack in Sherlock's voice.

Realizing he may have struck a nerve that had long been buried, he turned back to his own window and welcomed the silence again.

It was a few minutes later when John heard it, one sheepish sniffle from the tough and powerful detective. John could hear heaving breathing following, and he didn't have to be a genius to deduce that Sherlock's eyes had probably been watering.

Without a second thought, he slowly reached out his fingers to Sherlock's hand that had been resting on the seat. He clasped his hand around his friend's, gently at first. Then without even looking back at John, he turned his hand over and held the doctor's warm fingers in his palm.

Their hands slipped swiftly out of each other's as the cab came to a stop, and neither of them said a word about it.


	5. The Patient

"You know last time I checked, machines don't get sick." John stated as he settled himself down into the embrace of his armchair.

"It's simply a malfunction John, don't be tedious."

John stared at the thin frame curled up on the sofa, wrapped like a pastry in layers of sheets. Sherlock scrunched his reddened nose and held back a fleeting coughing fit.

"Sherlock, you're sick, it's obvious. Surely you of all people should've already deduced this."

"I am not sick, I don't get sick, I am, however, severely allergic to stupidity."

John put down his book and just glared dully at Sherlock's sniffling face.

"You're impossible."

"Improbable, maybe. John, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the room, your presence is most certainly adding to the pounding in my head."

"Oh right sorry I'm just filling the room with stupidity pollen aren't I?"

"Precisely, now if you want my symptoms to cease I suggest you vacate the area."

"Why do you talk like that? You know you don't have to use big words in every sentence."

"They're only big words to you, John."

"Very funny but really though, you could just say 'hey some alone time would be nice.'"

"John I would very much appreciate the solitude of my own company."

"You're doing it on purpose now."

"Astute observation," Any confidence Sherlock had left in his voice was soon vanquished when he was hurled into a wave of coughs and sneezes, digging his face in his sheets directly after.

John had already gotten up to get some tissues and headed over to the sofa to hand them to his sickened friend.

"Here," he held them out in front of Sherlock's covered face.

"I don't need tissues," he mumbled under the sheets.

"Sherlock, you're being a child." John said as he ripped the cloth away from the detective's face.

"John! A little privacy please!"

"Oh come off it Sherlock, for Christ's sake you can't even admit when you've got a little cold!"

"Machines don't get colds John." He mumbled as he turned to face the other way.

John huffed and tossed the tissues on the coffee table, heading over to the kitchen. He murmured to himself as he fiddled with the kettle, "Fine, Sherlock, you want proof? I'll give you proof." He made a steaming mug of Earl Grey tea and some toast with strawberry jam. Holding it steadily, he walked over to the sitting room.

"Hey," he started with a sudden calmness to his voice, "Sherlock? You still alive there mate?" his voice practically hummed with the new soothing tone.

Sherlock shifted in his sheets, sniffed dryly and turned to face John.

"You made tea." He stated as John placed the mug and plate down on the coffee table.

"Yupp, not a big deal, " He calmly headed back over to his armchair where he picked his book back up, "you can have it if it you want, but I won't mind if you're not in the mood." John seemed to be quite distant now with his eyes buried in his book.

"You know I barely eat John." Sherlock's voice seemed to soften a bit as well.

Without looking up,

"Yeah I know, it's not a problem. If you don't want the toast you can throw it out to the birds, I'm sure they'd enjoy it." He looked up and gave a small smile to the detective.

"Hm, right," Sherlock eyed the steaming mug before getting himself more comfortable and shutting his heavy lids. His eyes shot back open though with the dull thud of John closing his book.

"I'm going to have a shower," he let Sherlock know as he made his way to the bathroom.

When John came padding back downstairs in fresh clothes and slightly damp hair, he was surprised to see his blue silken friend sitting diligently behind his microscope.

"Feeling well enough to experiment again hm?"

Sherlock didn't look up from his research as he spoke.

"Strawberry jam is terribly sweet, John."

John almost gasped in surprise with his back facing Sherlock.

"Oh, is it?"

"Yes, it's awful."

"Hm, that's a shame." John grinned as he glanced in the trash to see the crusts of a mostly eaten piece of toast, and grinned even wider when he saw the empty mug sitting on the counter. He picked up the paper and headed toward the living room.

"Glad to see you're feeling better." and John smiled to himself as he basked in his tiny victory.


	6. The Warm

"Damn it!" John found himself shouting as he hung up the phone as violently as he could.

"Still nothing I assume?" Sherlock asked as he entered the darkened sitting room.

"Lines are still down, towers are going crazy, nothing's working." John let out a pent up sigh as he crashed down onto the already chilled sofa.

Sherlock just stood by the tall, paned window, the charcoal skies illuminating the specks of green in his eyes. The windows were the only source of light in the entire flat, and cast soft grey shadows on every inch of furniture.

"God damn blizzard, this is ridiculous! What are we supposed to do with no heat? Or power?"

"Freeze, I suppose."

"Good suggestion Sherlock."

"Do calm down John, there's absolutely nothing you can do, except adapt."

"What do you want me to do grow a fur coat?"

"That would be strange. I'm sure some blankets would suffice."

"Fine, I'll get some blankets. We've still got wood in the fireplace right?"

"I believe so."

"Good, that'll at least last us the night. Hopefully tomorrow I can go out and pick up some more."

"If the roads are open,"

"Did I ever mention how much of an optimist you are?"

With no response from Sherlock John went to gather blankets from he and Sherlock's room. Upon John's return Sherlock was busy poking and prodding a newly beginning fire. Orange sparks were already starting to light up the atmosphere.

"You know Sherlock, I was thinking,"

"Were you? That's odd."

John came in and plopped the blankets down in front of their armchairs.

"Yes, well, I was thinking maybe this storm isn't such a bad thing after all."

"What do you mean? You were obviously flustered only moments ago."

"Yeah but, well, maybe this could be the perfect opportunity for me to teach you about something very…human."

"We've already been over this, I like being a machine."

"I know that," he said as he wrapped himself up in his downy feather-filled comforter and sat down in front of the fire, "but I think instead of trying to prove you're human, I want to show you what it's like to be human."

Sherlock followed John in wrapping himself up and sitting across from the flames.

"I don't follow."

John watched the orange and yellow specks dance around in Sherlock's eyes.

"I want to show you one of the greatest joys in being made of flesh and bone."

Sherlock arched his head curiously and furrowed his brow in confusion.

"And what would that be?"

"Sharing that experience,"

"I still don't understand."

"Sharing, Sherlock, being close to someone."

"_Close?" _he questioned with distaste, "How could being close to someone possibly be enjoyable?"

"Well you probably wouldn't know, which is the sad part. I'm not sure you've ever had the opportunity to be close to someone."

"Why would I ever need to be?"

"Well I don't know if you've noticed but this isn't the biggest fire, and I'm not exactly the warmest I could be, and I don't know about you but—"

"John," Sherlock stared at him in curious disbelief, "are you asking me to cuddle?"

"I know it's weird, but when I was little, and it would storm, my mum would always wrap me up in a blanket and cuddle with me. It's a…strange comfort that I…miss."

"But I'm not your mother John."

"I know that, and that's what got me thinking. You never had anyone to comfort you during a storm, and you must have been afraid. And maybe that's why you're so cold sometimes; you never had anyone to keep you warm."

Sherlock was silent for a while before meeting John's eyes with the look of an innocent, unknowing child. Quietly and softly, and lifted up his blanket encased arm and wrapped it around John's small figure. In turn John curled his arm around Sherlock's waist and sighed into his chest.

The heat emanating from John's form came as a sudden shock to Sherlock, who tried to analyze the strange feeling that was welling up in his chest.

"Stop thinking," John whispered with eyes closed.

Sherlock only rested his chin on top of John's head and breathed into his dusty blonde hair. Even with the screeching wind outside, the howling moans of the winter night, and the thuds of debris being flown into the street, all seemed quiet, like the whole room hushed just so Sherlock and John could hear each other's soft breathing.

"John," Sherlock's deep baritone cut through the warm silence.

"Yeah?"

"I…I do enjoy this, you're very warm, but…"

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"This is still alien to me. I can see how this feeling is enjoyable but I don't know why. I don't know why it felt nice that you made tea for me when I was sick. I don't know why I felt the need to hold onto your hand in the cab. Emotions and I just don't…mix."

"I'm sorry Sherlock."

"It's not your fault, but John?"

"Yeah?"

"I…I think I'm going to go into my room now. I don't like not knowing. I still don't feel human. I'm just not like you."

And with that Sherlock slid out of John's grip and sulked over to his room, leaving John alone and a whole Sherlock colder than before.


	7. The Offering

Dusk was just creeping up on the innocent daylight as John and Sherlock ran into the nearest alleyway.

"Why Sherlock! Why?" He yelled at the detective as he panted against the cool brick wall.

"Why what?" Sherlock asked with bated breath, looking around every corner for the criminal that'd currently been chasing them.

"Why is it always an alley? We always end up in a god damn alleyway! And you know what?"

"What?"

"Nothing good ever happens in them!"

"Good point, we'll keep running, I just have to let Lestrade know we've found the guy."

"Fine, but hurry." John said, still out of breath.

"Alright, done!" Sherlock looked up at John's face which had suddenly been stricken with copious amounts of fear.

"What is it John?"

"Run!"

John was about to run back into the street when he saw Sherlock turn around and immediately receive a blow to the chest from the suspect.

"Shit!" John yelled as he charged towards their assailant, ready to give out a few punches of his own.

But John was caught off guard when the man pulled out a knife, and swiftly slashed his side. John cried out in pain as the blade sliced through his skin and immediately fell on his knees. Sherlock was already on his feet and had taken the liberty of picking up a large brick from the ground, which he happily swung onto the suspect's head. The man fell back immediately and was out in seconds.

Sherlock turned to John who was now on his side, curled up into a ball and clenching his waist with a bloody hand.

"John! Oh…Jesus," Sherlock panted as he kneeled down by his friend.

"Pressure…" John managed to whimper through gritted teeth.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock sighed as he placed his thick gloved hand over John's and pressed firmly into his side. With his free hand he took out his phone and let Lestrade know to bring an ambulance. John winced in pain with the slightest movement of his hand and Sherlock knew he had to stop the bleeding better.

"John, I'm going to let go for a moment, do you trust me?"

"Course." He breathed out.

Sherlock let go, and took off his navy blue scarf with his now bloodied hands. He carefully turned John on his back and unzipped his thin jacket. He was about to wrap the scarf around the wound when John put out a hand to stop him.

"Sherlock, wait, that's your—"

"I know what it is, just let me do this." Without any further arguing Sherlock wrapped the fabric tightly around John's waist and placed his hand back over it.

"Thank you…" John whispered.

It was only a matter of seconds before Sherlock could hear the comforting wailing of sirens in the distance.

Back at Baker Street, John had been home from the hospital for about a day and was calmly resting in his room when Sherlock came in with a bowl of soup.

"Mrs. Hudson made this," he grumbled as he placed it on John's nightstand.

"Thank you," John sighed, still sleepy from pain medication.

"Not a problem John."

"No, Sherlock, thank you." He added as Sherlock was about to put his hand on the doorknob.

"Yes, I brought you soup, you're welcome."

"Sherlock, please," and he patted the comforter near him to ask Sherlock to sit down. He sighed in response and plopped his thin frame down at the edge of the bed.

"What is it then?" he asked with his elbows on his knees.

"I just wanted to thank you for, well, you know, your poor scarf's ruined."

"I don't care. I can get another scarf, I can't get another John."

"Sherlock," John gaped up at him, "that's probably the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Is it? Drat, when did I start saying nice things?"

"I think when you saw me lying there and finally realized you weren't a machine."

"Hmph," Sherlock brought his clenched fingers up to his chin and looked as if he were pondering this.

"Because machines don't care if someone gets hurt, but you did. Cared enough to ruin your favorite scarf. And you know exactly what that says about you don't you?"

"Don't go thinking you've won John." He growled.

"Ah, another human trait,"

"What's that?"

"Being a sore loser,"

Sherlock let his hands fall in his lap and cast a glance at John's sleepy form.

"Fine, maybe I am human, but that doesn't mean I like it. And John…I believe you were right about more than just that."

John couldn't hold back a victorious smile. "What else was I right about?"

The expression on Sherlock's face quickly changed to one John rarely saw; sadness.

"I never did have anyone to hold me during a storm. I was very afraid. I hate storms." He spit out bitterly.

John just held out a hand towards Sherlock.

"Come here," he ordered calmly, then rested a hand on the empty spot next to him.

"John, I'm not cuddling with you."

"Come _here_," he practically whined like a child.

"It's not storming out."

"It doesn't have to be."

With that Sherlock swallowed his pride and climbed over John, tucking himself under the sheets.

"There. Happy?"

John turned to his side and wrapped an arm around Sherlock, snuggling him close so that their noses were almost touching.

"Yes, and I know you are too."


	8. Copper Heart (poem)

Copper Heart

A heart out of copper  
and a head made of brass,  
a mind like a clock  
behind eyes made of glass

Steel silver fingers  
and a voice like tin,  
a chest full of gears  
never ceasing to spin

A man out of metal  
meets a heart full of flames  
the heat from the furnace  
putting clockwork to shame

Metallic thoughts swam  
but were hopelessly drowned,  
the day that the man's copper heart  
melted down


End file.
